Scented Rain
by ConcreteAngelRoxHerHalo
Summary: She's married to his business partner, and it's through her husband that they meet... and they keep meeting... until they're involved in a complicated web and neither of them knows the way out. e/e.


**this isn't quite done yet, it's not edited ****at ALL**** but hey why not make it a multi-chapter thing.. it's not like I have multiple WIPs going on right now or anything. whoopsie.**

**from these prompts: petrichor~ the smell of rain on the pavement (asked by thegirlofpensandbooks on tumblr), cagamosis~ an unhappy marriage (asked by genericpseudonyms), and anagapesis~ the feeling when one no longer loves someone they once did (asked by insignificantramblings)**

**there's a bit of smut but I don't feel like putting it as M if you guys think I should then I will. **

* * *

_The sweet scent is all that salts the air as she stands in that damned parking lot staring into those cold, blue eyes. How did they get here after everything? How can he hurt her the way he once promised he never would?_

_She won't cry, because the tears of wolves are often mistaken for the rain. She doesn't want to see her tears rising in a misty fog off the pavement, sending into the air that strange smell that sets her alight at the same time it keeps her feet on the ground. _

_No words are spoken but for silent ones as they realize the empty space between them. To Enjolras's credit, he never once looks away from her accusatory glare. And when she shakes from the pain of it all, he seems ready to reach and offer her a hand for support. Ever the gentleman, ever the liar. _

"_Éponine—" he tries to mend something that he broke. She hates him more than ever in this moment—how can he still say her name like it's composed of notes instead of letters? How can his pink lips form those syllables without love reflected in his eyes? _

_No, he can never mend whatever it is he longs to fix. He's broken too much of her. The empty space between them isn't so empty after all. The ground is covered in the shattered pieces of her. Everything she has is spilling and disappearing into that rainy mist. _

* * *

She's married—of course she is, because all tragic love stories involve the transfer of a beating heart between quivering hands—when they meet. He's her husband's reluctant associate. It's not until much, much later that she learns how much he _hates_ what Marius and the rest of the company stands for. But when they first shake hands all she sees is this crisp, cold carving in front of her. His skin is snow, his hair is frozen gold. Those eyes of his are ice, and his lips must be a rare streak of rubies lying in this sharpened statuette.

"Nice to meet you, Mrs. Pontmercy," he says cordially. She smiles and accepts the gentle, brushing kiss he lays on her knuckles. Even while he bends, even while he bows, his eyes bore into hers.

"And you, Mr…. Enjolras, was it?" she does her best to retain the manners so drilled into her by Marius's aunt. Still her voice is the child of shadows and despair. She wonders if Enjolras can see the ghosts of cigarettes past leaning against her carefully painted lips.

"Yes. Now, Mrs. Pontmercy, if you'll excuse us," Enjolras says with a curt nod. She resists the urge to turn and watch her husband and his strange friend (associate, coworker, acquaintance, whatever this marble man must be to her Marius).

If she bothers to look at those long, delicate fingers, she will see the invisible stains there. The transfer of hearts has already happened. So quickly, so simply—it doesn't even hurt Éponine for her to cast a fleeting glance at Marius and know that she no longer loves him.

* * *

"What is your name?" she asks him the next day he comes. Today he is slightly more ruffled. His golden curls are not slicked back. They dangle in his eyes and cause the effect of sunlight and sky. His shirt is buttoned tight but untucked. There are papers emerging from his binder.

"I told you yesterday, ma'am, it's—"

"I know your last name, Mr. Enjolras," she smarts. His hurried demeanor screeches to a halt and he peers at her with the beginning of what must be vague curiosity.

"Why do you want to know?" he asks.

_Because_, she wants to say, _you waltzed into my life yesterday and left the dance floor without having the decency to give me my heart back. _However, she clears her throat and says daintily, "Humor a bored housewife, please."

"Aden," he says finally. His name is reluctant off his lips; she makes a note to discard its value. The French consonants of his last name roll better in the air and float smoother to her ears.

"It means fire, yes?" she asks, and he nods. Marius's footsteps begin to echo nearby. The empty space where her heart should be clenches at the thought of this Aden Enjolras leaving.

"And yours, Mrs. Pontmercy?"

She's so surprised when he bothers to ask that her name escapes before she thinks of the power of names. "Éponine."

"Éponine," he repeats. It sounds like a song sung long ago. She'll never think her name the same again when it's said by anyone other than him. This time when he leaves she watches. He spares a cool, calculated look over his shoulder.

She's slipping into an abyss. As long as he's there too, she'll survive.

* * *

It starts almost accidentally. Marius has meetings every Saturday with his therapist Fauchelevant. Enjolras starts scheduling their extra work sessions to occur shortly after he returns. However, Enjolras is more than punctual every time—he comes before Marius has even started driving back home.

She's there to greet him every time. It takes a while, but soon they open up to each other. Over Éponine's renowned coffee, they confess little things at a time. With a cappuccino moustache framing his upper lip, Enjolras tells her that he's not named Aden for fire after all—though he can burn well enough to convince her otherwise—and that the tragic origin of his name is instead the place where his father killed a man. The Gulf of Aden is apparently an Enjolras family favorite.

"Marius met me when he and his grandfather were in a fight," Éponine says. "He moved into a decrepit tenement—surely you've heard him talking about it… it's the only reason he thinks he knows jack shit about the plight of the poor. Anyway, yours truly was his neighbor."

"You lived in the Gorbeau tenement?" Enjolras asked incredulously.

Éponine stared down into the dark, cooling coffee. She's learned that Enjolras likes cappuccinos with a dash of cinnamon. She likes her coffee black with nothing in it. It's funny; the business man likes sweet and pale while the housewife prefers it straight. Sometimes Éponine wonders if he likes his alcohol the same way.

"I did. Next door to Marius. Eventually he and his grandfather got over whatever it is that split them. Marius came back home, and he brought me with him."

"Do you ever want to change things?" To some this would seem like a change of the subject. But over these few meetings, Éponine already knows him. He's doubting her and Marius, just like she is.

"No," she says, looking into his eyes. She knows that hers are onyx. He won't find anything there unless he looks very, very hard. "I'm happy."

He makes a humming noise in the back of his throat, but just then Marius's voice is calling from the foyer, "Enjolras! Are you here?"

Éponine smiles coyly as Enjolras stands heavily away from the table. Her lie still sits in the air like a cloud thick with threatening rain.

* * *

Marius sleeps like the dead. There is so much space between them on the bed. On the other end of Éponine's visisble world, Marius's bare arm is flung over his pillow. He drools and darkens the pale fabric. A not-so-long-ago version of her would find this endearing—attractive, even—but now it's gross.

She turns away with distaste brewing in the pit of her stomach. Almost unwelcome thoughts of her husband's coworker pop into her head. Perhaps she should stop associating Enjolras with Marius—for now that boy made of frozen gold and marbles is a friend of hers. As she thinks of his pale eyes and his ruffled hair, her hand roams unbidden down her body.

With his face in mind and a hand touching her breast, Éponine's breath hitches. She looks quickly over to Marius to see if he's noticed anything. He's still fast asleep.

Feeling naughty, she continues to fondle herself. Her hand slips beneath her night shirt and brushes a finger against her nipple. Again, she gasps, imagining Enjolras's hand tweaking her delicate skin. Her other hand moves downwards, fingers brushing lightly over the span of her neck and then the swell of her breast. She pictures Enjolras's lips, leaving purple bruises wherever her fingers deign to touch.

This imaginary form of him smiles before nipping the soft skin on the inside of her thigh. His hand moves from her breast to her wet center, stroking sweetly down her waiting body. He gently kisses the nub of flesh. Her body jerks back and her head slams into her pillow. A breathy moan escapes her lips, but still Marius sleeps.

"Éponine," his song is sung against her center. His breath enters her just before his tongue eases inside of her. Éponine's thumb plays the part gleefully, gently caressing her opening and sliding inside her for only a few centimeters.

His tongue is replaced by those long, slender fingers of his. The ones that hold the stains of her heart now slide into her and thrust. Éponine bites the corner of her pillow as tears spring to her eyes at the pain of the pleasure. Enjolras's fingers are still hard and rough as they fuck her with a kind of jagged love.

She breathes heavily, the pillow muffling her. The tears spill down her cheeks and the pillow slips out from between her teeth as the pleasure completely overtakes her. She seizes and barely manages to whisper his name into the heavens.

"Enjolras—" she moans. Beside her Marius stirs. Feeling much like a child caught stealing candy, Éponine reluctantly draws her hand out of her panties and wipes it on her shirt, turning away from her sleeping husband. Defiant guilt plagues her as she tries to drift off to sleep.

* * *

She finds out the truth behind Marius's appointments shortly after he and Enjolras stop meeting in their home. She wonders why Fauchelevant's monthly check no longer comes in the mail, so she picks up the phone and calls his office. He answers in that warm voice of his that's so kind and homely.

"Hello?"

"Hi Dr. Fauchelevant, my name is Éponine Pontmercy—"

"…Pontmercy? Are you a relation to Marius Pontmercy?"

"Yes… I was wondering why your bill never came in the mail," Éponine says carefully. She notices the shift in the doctor's voice and clutches the phone so close to her face that it digs into her cheek.

"Marius is no longer my patient, Ms. Pontmercy," he says. "I recommended him to a new therapist—"

"Whatever for?" Éponine questions quickly. She recalls Marius's words the previous week—'_I'm going to see doctor Fauchelevant_'. Why would he lie to her?

"I can't treat my daughter's boyfriend, it's unethical."

_Daughter._

_Daughter._

_Boyfriend._

Éponine's hand relaxes its grip on the phone. The object slips from her palm and hits the floor with a clatter. The doctor's voice is still staticy and present in the air. "_Hello_?_ Ms. Pontmercy_?"

Her hands quiver in the devoid air of the room. She reaches blindly and grabs a fistful of fabric. The familiar silk of her bathrobe slides over her skin. But it's not comforting like it usually is—the luxury is cold and cold and _oh so cold._

Droplets of rain drip down the window pane that is close to being broken by her jabbing elbow as she clumsily pulls on her robe.

"Ma'am?" the maid stands there with wide eyes, watching Éponine with the fear of an animal about to be snatched by its predator. Éponine calmly looks into those terrified eyes.

"Tell Mr. Pontmercy," Éponine says coolly, "that his ex-wife will return for her stuff in a few days."

"But Mrs.—oh." The poor girl seems to realize what sort of message she's been told to deliver and she pales. Éponine sweeps past her and into the empty foyer. Her bare feet echo all the way to the front door, which she wrenches open.

She remembers her mother telling her at some point that there is no poetry that's half as beautiful as the smell of rain on the pavement. She thinks it's truth—it has to be—because right now it smells of freedom and release and the falling out of love that's graceful instead of jarring.

She doesn't care about the looks that are catching on her wandering frame. Her silk robe is plastered to her skin. Her hair is matted against her skull. She's sure that her eyes must be crazy. She knows she has a tendency to not realize how dark and evil she seems when her eyes are shot through with blood and when their color is black instead of brown.

Most of all, Éponine should be ashamed of where she's running to. _Who_ she's running to. She should be ashamed that she's memorized his address.

He lives in an apartment—a small one by the looks of it—with the building's entryway startlingly simple. She pushes through the doors and runs into a doorman, who looks at her like all the people on the street have. She raises her chin.

"I'm here to see Luke Enjolras," Éponine channels all the burgoise training she's had. The doorman's eyes flicker to her bare, dirty feet before he nods carefully and presses a button on the wall.

"Mr. Enjolras, there's a woman here to see you. Should I send her up?"

Enjolras's reply is nearly lost in the static, but something jolts through her—something like comfort—at the sound of his voice.

"I'll come down."

It takes far too long for the elevator to ding and for him to step into the lobby. He's dressed down for the first time since she's known him, and his golden curls are even messier than usual. He spots her with wide eyes.

"Éponine?"

"Marius is cheating on me," she whispers, feeling her legs tremble. She must be swaying more than she realizes, for he lunges forward to steady her. Up close, his eyes are even bluer. There are flecks of gray mixed in, just like a cloudy sky. His breath is warm against her wet skin, and it smells like honey.

"Come on, let's get you upstairs," he says gently. She wonders if he's always like this; if he's always a charming man with a storm brewing under his sunny skin. She wonders if he's the entirety of the universe contained into one mortal soul.

He leads her into the elevator and presses a button for one of the higher floors. As soon as the door closes, Éponine peels her robe away from her body, feeling his gaze on her. As soon as the wet clothes beneath (for the rain has that much strength today) are revealed, he gulps. She looks back at him to see his eyes fixed on the roof.

She's wearing nothing under her thin shirt.

The air between them is as full of electricity as the stormy sky outside. Éponine's eyes focus on the scruffy line of Enjolras's jaw and watch as it clenches. She's tempted to tease him, to ask why it is he's acting so strangely, but she knows why.

"I wouldn't mind," she says softly. His eyes dart away from the ceiling to meet hers—they burn blue—only to move back to their fixed place.

"Wouldn't mind what?" His voice is gruff.

Feeling far more nervous than she's letting on, Éponine reaches for his hand. He twitches when her wet fingers entwine with his warm, dry ones. He has very different calluses than she does. His are on his knuckles, formed from years of writing furiously. Hers are simply the result of a rough life.

She moves his hand to her cheek and lets it rest there. He allows his fingers to relax. Even when she pulls her hand down, he keeps cupping her face. However, a loud crack of thunder crashes through the room, and Enjolras releases her. His hand falls, dangling, to his side.

"You should—uh—borrow some of my clothes." His voice is still low, but it's set and determined. He's not breaking tonight. He's not giving her this moment.

And she is _not_ okay with that.

He turns around. His lean back faces her, lithe muscles showing through the slightly tight t-shirt he wears instead of his usual dress top. His curls just barely tickle the nape of his neck. The shadows of his apartment fold around him, much like the approaching night does the setting sun. She is just one of these shadows, leaning up towards him, getting as close as she can before his brightness burns her away.

"Enjolras—" she begins. Her intentions are innocent enough, but when he turns around and his ever-so-slightly-present smirk is wiped away in favor of a hungry scowl, his name dies on her lips.

And he cups her face again with a bruising grip. He lifts her chin high enough so that he can swoop down and capture her mouth with his own. A flash of lightning fills the apartment for just a second. It's barely long enough for Éponine's eyes to flutter open and for her to catch sight of a nearby mirror, showing Enjolras embracing her. It looks…. right.

The light is gone and her eyes close until she's lost in him.

* * *

**REVIEW! I need reviews to live. Like, a review a day keeps Ceara... from going away? idk guys just pls drop some thoughts xD**


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